What We Were

Chapter 4: Part 3

I don’t think I’ve told you very much about my biological father, who I haven’t meant to neglect telling you about. I just thought that if you cared you would’ve asked. You know, I can’t just pretend you’re not here listening to my story.  Wondering where it is I’m going with all of this, and in all honesty I don’t really know where I am going with this. But just to take a break from telling you what you pretty much already understand about Noah and me, I will steer backwards on the timeline to the part where I was born.

               I was born February 13, 1996 in Vancouver, Canada. I was born to a loving mom and dad, which now a days I know is pretty hard to come by. My dad was so excited when he first found out he was going to have a baby, that he immediately started painting the nursery blue. Blue as in boy. He bought blue blankets, blue toys, and blue onesies.  He was so ready to have a boy. But my parents didn’t want to know the sex of the baby. So February 13th 1996, I was born in the Vancouver General Hospital.  Let’s just say that he was surprised to say the least.  But my mom says, when he picked me up and held me, he said he would rather have me than all the baby boys in the world. He held my tiny hands and smiled like I was some kind of miracle.

               Mom says that when I was two, my traits started to really show. I had my dad’s hair, and my mom’s eyes. I had her smile and his nose. I got her skin tone and his brain. Mom says I even have his hands. I don’t know if having my father’s hands is a bad thing or good thing, but I’m going with good for now.

               After the first few years in Vancouver, we moved to a small town far outside of Chicago for my dad’s job. It was also, conveniently where my dad’s sister, Aunt Beatrice lived. As soon as I was old enough to pick up a football by myself, dad began teaching me. He had a real passion for it. Mom says; when he was in high school he was in line for a scholarship to play professionally in the states. The recruiters were very impressed with him, but once during a very long and hard game, he severely injured his leg and was never able to play professionally. But after we moved, he decided to teach the little leaguers. I was the only girl on the team, which was pretty embarrassing. But, they soon got used to me and we did pretty well for a little league. Then, when I started 2nd grade dad told me I couldn’t play with the boys anymore because I was a distraction to them. He said that they couldn’t focus, when a pretty girl like me was intimidating them and showing them up. He said it like it was a good thing, to be intimidating. It sucked, but I would still play with dad in the backyard. Aunt Beatrice would always come over and complain about how he was raising me to be a boy and not a girl. He would just chuckle and keep passing me perfect spirals from his lawn chair. Eventually at the age of nine, my spirals were better.

               For the most part, you could say that my childhood was pretty ordinary, and wasn’t anything special. I had one dad. I had one mom. I had one dog named Sticky. I had a house with white doors. I had good grades and I did what I was told. Everything was wonderful and perfect, or at least it should have been.

               On the night of April 14, 2004, my dad went out to get some take-out for me and mom. I remember sitting at the kitchen table, doing my homework for my 3rd grade English class. It was thundering that night as mom’s music was turned down so that she could ask me, “So Jules, I hear this Noah kid is something pretty great? What do you think? Do you talk to him much?”

“Yeah, he’s ok. He’s really nice and funny! Today in music class, Noah accidentally got his hand stuck in the drums set! I laughed so hard that I almost peed!”